Chapter 54
Chapter Fifty-Four
F ox
The students filter into the classroom one by one, and I scan my gaze among them. Anticipation races through my body, making my fingers tingle and my magic hiss.
But it’s all for nothing. The girl is not among them.
Again.
For the second time, she has chosen to skip my lesson.
A storm of emotions erupts in my stomach. Disappointment. Rage. Irritation. Fear.
Is it because she knows the truth?
I close my eyes and battle the storm into submission.
I will not lose control. I will not betray the way I feel. I will not make the mistake of hunting her down again.
I wait until all the students are settled and then I ask calmly, hoping the strain in my voice does not give me away, “Miss Storm is not here.”
“Thank goodness,” one of the Smyte twins mutters under her breath. It’s pathetically transparent how jealous so many of the other students are of her – just because she’s caught the attention of the Princes. A bunch of spoiled, arrogant brats.
“Has she chosen to skip my class yet again?”
I direct my question towards her friend, who, despite my calm tone and calm demeanor, quakes on his seat.
“N-n-n-n-no,” he stutters, swallowing hard. “I think she’ll be along soon. She had to–”
“I’m not interested in hearing excuses!” I snap.
“But–” he protests feebly.
“Quiet!” I thunder. “You all have a duty to attend my class. But that duty does not just extend to yourselves. I expect all my students to be present and if they are not, that reflects on all of you.” I glare at the students sitting in front of me, although I doubt they can see me hidden away in the shadows. “Therefore, you will all be punished for Miss Storm’s tardiness.”
“What the fuck?” some obnoxious shadow weaver shrieks from the front row.
“Silence!” I boom, my irritation getting the better of me. “Take out your pens and paper. I will not be teaching you until Miss Storm is good enough to join us. You will sit in silence, copying the following lines from the board.” I brush my hands through the air and my shadows race towards the blackboard, scribbling nonsense sentences in white chalk.
“This isn’t fair,” Lynette Smyte moans.
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“She’s such a little bitch. Someone needs to put her in her place – once and for all,” her sister whispers in her ear, so quietly I expect she thinks no one would hear.
“And I suppose, you think, you are the person who should do that, do you, Miss Smyte?” I ask her.
She peers through the shadows at me with a whole heap of disdain. “Yes.”
“How?” I ask, the danger obvious in my voice.
“Fry her like a slice of bacon. It would be good practice.” She smirks.
Anger crackles inside me. I’d like to fry Henrietta Smyte like a slice of bacon. Somehow, however, I manage to keep it together.
“It’s not her fault,” Briony’s friend starts to protest, but any further words are interrupted by the opening of the door and the girl herself strolling through without a damn care in the world.
“You’re late!” I roar.
“I am,” she snaps back, meeting my angry glare with one of her own. For a moment, our eyes are locked together like that and her scent slithers towards me, softening everything inside me, making me hungry instead.
“We’re copying lines from the board, Miss Storm. Take a seat. You can see me afterwards.”
“Now she’s here, can’t we–” the first shadow weaver starts to argue.
“No,” I say, then I lean back in my chair and spend the next ninety minutes watching her. Transfixed by her. Mesmerized by her.
“This is becoming a habit,” I growl at her when we’re once again alone. “Tell me what the hell makes you think you can miss my lessons? Because I’m pretty certain I made it clear last time that I won’t tolerate it.”
Perhaps being alone like this is dangerous and foolish. Perhaps I shouldn’t fall for the temptation.
But we’re here now. Once again alone.
She rolls her eyes at me like I’m being unreasonable. “It wasn’t my choice.” I snort. “Madame Bardin asked to see me.”
An icy cold sweeps across my skin and into the pit of my stomach.
“Madame Bardin?” I say quietly.
“Yes, she asked to talk to me in her office. I couldn’t exactly say no.”
“Talk to you? Talk to you about what?”
The obnoxious expression falls away and the blood rushes to the surface of her cheeks. For the briefest of seconds it distracts me, my stomach moaning in agony.
“I’m not sure …” she mutters. “It was private.”
I stalk towards her and grab hold of her wrist. “What did she want to talk to you about, Briony?” It’s the first time I’ve used her name, and the sound of it takes both of us by surprise. It sounds so personal, so intimate.
“You,” she hisses. I nod. Me. I’m not surprised at all. But does that mean the Madame is aware about how I feel? I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m only surprised the girl herself has not realized. It must be written all over my face. Clear in my every move. “She seems to be under this deluded impression that the two of us are … I don’t know what!”
My fingers are wrapped tightly around her wrist. Her pulse thunders beneath her skin – skin that is so delicate, so paper thin, so fragile.
I say nothing and my eyes stray to the pulse in her neck, thundering away too – the skin there just as vulnerable.
“Which is utterly ridiculous,” she continues, “considering it’s the two of you who are–”
“What?” I say, dropping her wrist.
Even more of that blood rushes to her cheeks. “I saw you together – this morning in the library. I know you’re together.”
“We are not together,” I say firmly.
“Right,” she says sarcastically, “not ‘seeing each other’ but still messing around. Whatever. I’m really not interested in becoming entwined in whatever sick games the two of you are playing.”
“We’re not playing any games,” I say, although as soon as I say it I wonder if that’s really true. “We’re not together. We’re not screwing around – if that is what you are insinuating. Whatever you thought you saw this morning, you didn’t.”
She glares at me and for the briefest flicker of a moment, I wonder why she cares, I wonder if she cares, I wonder if maybe she is jealous. But I bat those foolish ideas away.
Just because my thoughts about the girl are burgeoning on the obsessive, does not mean she feels the same way about me. And even if she did, so what? I will not go there. I refuse to go there.
“Madame Bardin is dangerous,” I tell her.
“Is she an ex? Is that what this is about?”
I ignore her questions.
“Briony,” I say earnestly, “do not meet with her alone. Even if she asks you to, do not. It isn’t safe.” She stares at me, disbelief written all over her face, waiting for me to say more, to explain myself. But how can I? “Trust me when I say, she is dangerous.”
“Trust you?” she spits. “Why the hell would I trust you?”
Something pangs in my chest. Something I haven’t felt in years and years. Is that hurt? Do I want her to trust me? She’d be a fool to. And the girl is bright, I see that. She’s no fool.
And yet, still I want her to trust me. Fuck, I want to protect her and devour her. I want it all.
“Fine,” I concede. “You don’t have to trust me. But for your own safety – for your own sake – heed this warning anyway.”